Oars
by Lyra Soren
Summary: high difference


**Oars**

Ryoma scowls, as he swings on and off his tip-toes. He looks suspiciously in the mirror that is exactly 20 centimeters taller than him self. As much as he pushes up, the amount still doesn't lessen. He presses his forehead on the cold silver reflecting surface, already out of breath. Maybe he should try climbing on top of his bed, which will add at least 15 centimeters of boost, he reasons. Still not enough. Or, he might as well carry it to his parents' bedroom, where the bed is much higher than his. No. The thought of his father laughing at him makes him lose his momentum.

He sprawls over the bed covers, in a defeated mess of limbs and pride. He's twelve, what does he expect? None of his senpais grew over night, so why should him? This knowledge unsettles him more than he lets it show. If that's the case, then he will never beat buchou as he is now. Naturally, Karupin jumps with grace on his stomach. 'Ow, Karu, not now.' He comes to a conclusion, while petting his cat more in a way to calm him self, than to pleasure the feline.

'I'm going out to practice.' he informs no one in particular, as he ties the laces of his sneakers. He starts his jog, although outside the sun is about to set. He doesn't care. He runs, just runs. He needs to take his mind off the ridiculous way they will look while kissing, just because he's short, or the captain is too tall. He doesn't notice he's been running in circles, around the neighborhood, and not even that he has been counting each full circle as a lap.

At the 25 lap the realization halts him on his tracks. He draws in inconsistent intakes of breath, panting as he does after a hard match. His hands rest on his knees, while he tries to get his breathing under control. His stamina lasts longer than this, he knows. So what-? He interrupts in mid-thought, as an image flashes through his mind. His own fingers are thread between browns tinges of hair. Then, another pair of fingers, longer, is gliding lower on his back, teasing, drawing him closer.

He gives up running altogether. He spots a vending machine and introduces 120 yen he needs for his Ponta. Next, he sits in the shadow of a tree, sipping from his grape soda, taking long gulps. Consequently, he leans his head on his folded arms and falls asleep in seconds.

ooo

This is how he is found later by Oishi and Kikumaru-senpai. Oishi-senpai is fussing over the fact that the ground is cold, especially at night, and that is dangerous to wander the streets alone at this hour. Ryoma rubs at his eyes, ignoring him for most of the part, at the same time trying to extricate himself out of Kikumaru-senpai's bear hug.

'Thanks senpais.' Ryoma mutters while arranging his cap.

'Just make sure you won't fall asleep on the streets, okay?' asks Oishi-senpai with concern.

'Hai.' he answers half-heartedly with nonchalance.

'Can't Ochibi come with us? Ne, Oishi, can he, can he?' Kikumaru-senpai enthusiastically reiterates.

'I don't think so, Eiji, his parents must be worried, and it is past ten o'clock.' Oishi-senpai argues.

'Demo, Oishi…' Ryoma leaves half way though their conversation, tugging the brim of his cap lower on his eyes, whispering a wistful 'mada mada da ne.' At least this consistency won't alter as the time passes. He doesn't necessary want to go home, thus he wonders aimlessly a little longer.

ooo

He forgot to bring his racket; however his steps lead him to the practice machines, almost on the other part of the city. The floodlights are on, considering the late hour of the night. Someone is practicing, he notices. He watches with unguarded fascination as the ball curves to the player again and again, as the undulations propagating on the surface of a lake. He knows this. He has countered it only once, though. Tezuka-zone. His presence is concealed by the obscurity; hence, he leans on the brick wall and doesn't tear his eyes off.

He observes with a start that the slot machine throws the ball each time faster than the last, and Tezuka-buchou doesn't even have to use Nitoryu. The lines of his left hand are white and arch inward each time the ball is in that precise point, and Ryoma thinks the principle is similar to that of a black hole that sucks everything in to its center. Tezuka stops. Ryoma holds his breath. The captain walks purposely to the slot lot and inserts another stock of coins of 100 yen, one after the other. Ryoma finds this moment proper to come out of his hiding.

'Buchou' he whispers loud enough for the other to hear. Tezuka calmly turns towards the direction he suspects the voice is coming from. His face is opaque in the artificial light, and Ryoma wants to believe that he isn't frowning.

'Echizen.' Buchou's voice is discordant in contrast to the night's stillness, but to Ryoma it sounds right, clear and unwaveringly stern, just how it sounds in his dreams. Though, Tezuka-buchou doesn't need to know that. Ryoma contemplates for a second the machine, before something strikes him like flash.

'Hey, buchou, do you have a spare?' he asks Tezuka, rising an inquisitive brow at him, until it becomes clear what he is actually asking for.

'Shouldn't you be home by now?' Tezuka points out, rather out of a sense of being responsible for his kohai, than anything else.

Ryoma smirks, taking a step forward towards the chained entrance of the mini-court. 'Shouldn't you?' He slips his fingers though the loops of the chains, in an attempt to see Tezuka's face more clearly. Tezuka moves towards the right end, wherein his tennis bag lays on the bench. Ryoma, perceptive, thinks the white shorts suit Tezuka better than the track pants. For more reasons than one. He takes a step back, as the gate unlocks from the inside. Tezuka steps outside, holding one of his white rackets out to him.

Ryoma tugs his cap to hide his contentment. Then he folds his palm around the handle of the other racket, and miraculously it fits. He pauses, looking up at Tezuka with a query in his eyes. Tezuka nods at him, reassuring. Ryoma tests the grip by swinging it, creating a ripple of cold air. He smiles satisfied.

'Buchou, are we-?' He is cut off by a hand placed on his shoulder; therefore, he gazes up at Tezuka. The captain's expression hasn't changed much from before, yet, there is a minute detail that makes Ryoma's heart flutter. Tezuka-buchou is surely smiling. For him. He feels like he's rowing in circles, and he muses whether this isn't a different kind of zone.

'Tch' he murmurs, as he takes his position at the line, a random line because really, they don't need a court to play. Tezuka walks away, turning after the right amount of distance. There is no net, however, sending the ball past it, is just a basic knowledge, as it is serving and volleying, smashing and other individual actions tennis consists of. Combined, they create an intricate flow, a resonance of mutual gestures swirling in an unknown pattern.

ooo

The yellow ball melts into the night, becoming a mere shadow, transparent, a sphere sent back and forth and of whose existence only they are aware of. They revolve around each other, rallying for so long; the points become a rarity, though who cares for the score when there is so much life pulsating? At some point the floodlights are turned off, despite this, they continue playing as fierce, even though their eyes are barely adapting to the darkness. There is no need to see. Weaken a sense, and others will sharpen. They find each other by feel, smashing balls that go so high and so far away they might as well lose them all.

They play for hours, until they lie spent on their backs, so close they might be touching, as tangents do to circles, Ryoma reckons through ragged breaths. He wants to say it was a great game, or something, nonetheless, he can't. They gaze at the same starry sky, their high difference being insignificant. They both feel like giants that just fought in a legendary battle. Ryoma doesn't look at his left; nevertheless, he fumbles until he finds Tezuka's hand and links their fingers together. Even through semi-obscurity he can tell Tezuka is staring at him.

'Buchou…' Ryoma says slowly, in a new tone he himself isn't sure what it means. Apparently, he is not the only one, as Tezuka stays motionless for what feels like forever, before he gives a reassuring squeeze in return. Ryoma relaxes infinitely, closing his eyes to savor this moment.

'Kiss me' he voices unintended out loud. There is rustling from his left and then a pair of lips is on his, kissing him gently and slowly, as if trying to tear half of him in the process, he has the impression he is flying in the outer space, reaching to the core of things, together with Tezuka. The lips withdraw, as quickly as they came. An impression, a fleeting touch. Ryoma's whole being metamorphoses, his only thoughts being completely different from the usual rambling about tennis. _More…more…and not enough…._These are his only coherent thoughts.

Tezuka probably knows exactly what he is thinking, because he is kissed again. This time he doesn't have to think, his body reacts on its on, encircling his hands around Tezuka's neck, threading through soft hair, just as he imagined he will . The similarity makes him feels as he knew this all along, yet, everything is renewed by the fact that, Ryoma can bite, can nibble, can pull closer, can grind against, until he is out of breath, they both are. Even so, neither of them would want to stop.

The friction of their clothed bodies is enough to drive Ryoma insane. He circles his trembling knees around Tezuka's waist, licking at his earlobe, and whimpering breathy grasps only for that ear to hear. His need is as ancient as the world. The sensations are too strong, augmenting until he is sure they'll rip him bit by bit, soon. He can feel a wet and hot tong lapping, sucking at his neck like the best tea plant is pouring from its surface. He does the same, tasting Tezuka's skin, from up his shoulder to the nape of his neck; his tongue can't get enough of it, of that aroma of green leaves and musk.

He inhales much needed breaths of Tezuka's smell, of sweat and tennis, and of lavender shampoo. His fingertips slip under the hem of Tezuka's shorts, eliciting the sweetest of sounds out of the captain. They are panting undone, mouth to mouth, breath to breath, and Ryoma clutches at Tezuka's shorts lunging forward, harder, to the point when he is gathered so tight in Tezuka's arms he believes he will chock on his own breath. He doesn't. He seems safer than he has ever been before, in those strong arms.

Eventually they come, Ryoma sobbing satisfied, muffled by Tezuka's shirt. Tezuka with a sigh of gratification. Their clothes are creased and smeared, though they hope no one will notice. Tezuka is the first one to recover, and he stands, holding his hand to him. He squints through his eyelashes, feeling sleepy, so even when he is on his own feet he almost walks in a pole.

'Come, Echizen, 'says Tezuka guiding him, 'let's go home.'

'Hai, buchou.'he says, as he leans on Tezuka's shoulder, kissing through the fabric the heated skin.

'Tomorrow we'll run laps.' Tezuka states sternly, tomorrow doesn't seem so far away anymore, that means in the morning they will still be themselves despite all this. They can play tennis, again, tomorrow.

'We've got careless.' Ryoma utters softly, pulling Tezuka down for a furtive kiss on his cheek.

'Aa, we have.' Tezuka confirms with a subtle smile of his own.

ooo

The next morning practice starts with an unusual sight for both Seigaku's regulars and non-regulars. Their esteemed captain is running laps together with their cheeky freshman, side by side, and in union, despite their mismatching highs.

'Echizen is taking 2.5 additional steps to match Tezuka's strides,' comments Inui.

'What do you think it's the motive behind this?' Oishi asks almost wanting to halt them himself.

'My guess is that either of them has done something that merits punishment.' Fuji says mysteriously.

'Do you think that too, Fuji?' Taka remarks.

'I knew we should have taken him with us, ne Oishi.' Eiji retorts, 'Mou, that ochibi making us worry all the time.'

'Oh? You met Echizen yesterday?' Fuji seems interested.

'Indeed we did. He was sleeping on the streets, pretty late in the evening. 'Oishi relates. 'I thought he'd go straight home.'

'Knowing that brat he must have gone to the street courts, he sure must have.' assumes Momoshiro, grinning.

'You were there last night, you moron. You would have seen him.' mentions Kaidoh, blushing shortly afterwards.

'What did you say mamushi?' argues Momoshiro.

'Stop, you two.' Oishi tries to placate them.

'Hmm. This certainly is intriguing.' Reflects Fuji. 'What do you think, Inui?'

'There is a 75% chance that they had met last night, at some point.' Inui observes, as he scribes everything neatly in his notebook.

'Yes, of course, tall oaks grow from little acorns.' Everyone stares at him oddly. He just shrugs; anyway, they just can't see the obvious.

ooo

They're in the club room, after everyone has already left at home. Ryoma contemplates the contents of the small room, the lockers, the benches, the tennis equipment, with disguised nonchalance, seemingly scanning, scrutinizing every minuscule detail searching for something specific. Ah, there that should do. He deftly hopes on the wooden bench in front of the lockers. He won't be tall enough, though he will be at a reasonable shorter distance.

He looks intently at Tezuka who is crouched over the papers trying to divide the players equally for the ranking matches. His pen glides in neat loops and movements, which makes Ryoma nearly jump off and scurry closer to see in which block he ended up in. He has the assurance that Tezuka is trying and failing miserably to be impartial when it comes to him. He smirks. The ominous glint of Tezuka's glasses may indicate that he is being watched. Knowing that he has the attention, he says:

'Come here, buchou.' There is a small hesitation, as the pen chases his variations on the paper, for a moment. He receives a steady glance, and the pen continues writing the last characters of a name. Ryoma notices the ink smears on the tips, which shine ivory in the light, when Tezuka paces across the room. Buchou still looks down at him, though Ryoma is taller, reaching to his upper lip.

'What is it?' Tezuka inquires, as sternly as he manages in that sort of situation. Ryoma knows the smile, knows the laughter from his eyes, and he almost chuckles, but stops himself in time.

'I've grown.' He smirks, being unable to hold the charade for much longer.

'You have, 'answers Tezuka, putting his hands on Ryoma's cheeks. 'I have.' And it is enough for Tezuka to lean a centimeter and for him to tilt his head, for their lips to fit. He needs to grow for real, really fast because it is infuriating to be this short. Though, kissing like this isn't so bad. If it is with Buchou, that is.


End file.
